Laura Caldwell - The Good Liar

He had hoped the phone call would give him reason to celebrate. He hoped the evidence they were searching for would have been discovered in the apartment and that anything that could shed light on the Trust and its role in certain events would have been destroyed. Trust only worked if it worked in secret. That was true whether it operated his way or the way it had for decades. And so he would always protect the secrecy of the Trust. No matter what it took.

But there was no reason to celebrate right now. That would come. Roger walked around his desk, took a seat and continued working.

St. Marabel, Canada

“T ell me about the first boy you kissed.” Michael said as we strolled St. Marabel’s long main promenade on a Tuesday evening.

“What?” I punched him lightly on the arm. “You don’t want to hear about that.”

“I do. I want to know everything.” Michael tucked my other hand tighter into the crook of his arm, and I nuzzled against his shoulder, unbelievably content.

It was June, when the days were getting longer and the summer had only begun to show itself, just like my new life, my new marriage, my new home of St. Marabel. St. Marabel, so far, had not disappointed. I adored its main street with its steep mansard roofs and brightly painted shutters over dormered windows. I loved the bistros protected by striped awnings, the little boutiques that stayed open until eleven at night, the galeries d’art. I liked the sight of vacationers moving languidly from store to bistro and back again. I loved the sound of French being spoken around me, buffeting me.

“Michael, I can’t tell you about my first kiss,” I said. “That’s the kind of thing people tell each other when they’re dating, not when they’re married.”

He made a stern face. “What kind of ridiculous statement is that? And besides, I will always be dating you. ”

“We’re married.” I loved the sound of it.

“But still courting.” Michael steered me onto a side street that curved its way around an old stone building. The scent of chocolate and pastry permeated the air. “So tell me about the first boy you kissed.”

I inhaled deeply, breathing the scent of the pastries and the cool, earthy smell that came from the cobblestones. “Maybe my first kiss was with you.”

“You were married before, my dear.”

I waited for the pain in my abdomen that always came when I was reminded of my relationship with Scott. But it didn’t hit. Not even a pinch. “Just because I was married doesn’t mean I kissed him.” I said this teasingly and felt a burst of relief that I could make a joke about my first marriage.

“Hmm, excellent. So I’m the first.”

“Yes.”

“I like it,” Michael said.

Suddenly, there was a rapid staccato sound from somewhere up the alley.

Michael swung me around and shoved me hard against the side of the building.

“Ouch! Michael, what—”

“Get down,” he barked in a low but insistent tone.

I did as he said and dropped to a squat, my heart thumping fast.

Michael spun around and faced the alley, one arm reaching behind to protect me, the other reaching toward his waist.

Two teenage girls ran past, their high heels clicking on the stone. Michael sighed, heavy with exasperation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to me. “Sorry. I got jumpy.”

“Jesus,” I said, standing up. “What was that about?”

He stared in the direction of the girls. He blinked fast. “Sorry.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“What did you think was happening there?”

“I don’t know. I got startled, I guess.” He lowered his head to kiss my neck and then whisper in my ear. “So where were we?”

I pulled his face to mine, so I could see his expression. The calm demeanor he usually wore had returned. “You’re okay?”

“I’m with you, aren’t I?” He grabbed me around the waist and nuzzled my collarbone.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m good.”

I wrapped my arms around him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m fine,” he said, but under his shirt, I could feel his heart beating fast.

Anguilla, West Indies

L iza sat on her balcony at Cap Juluca resort. Below her, the white sand was combed smooth and the morning sun glittered like diamonds on the aqua of the Caribbean Sea. She turned her attention to the table in front of her. Like many vacationers at the resort, Liza’s table bore coffee, rolls and the mini version of the New York Times. But Liza was not a vacationer, and so she pushed away the rolls, took a sip of her black coffee and opened up the complete version of the Times on her BlackBerry.

It was hard to focus on the articles. Normally, when she was on a job like this, focus was never a problem. But now Aleksei was gone, and she hadn’t been able to find out a damn thing about the crash. The Trust, which knew all about her and Aleksei and also knew that she might be distracted by his death, had sent her on this mission to Anguilla. She’d been grateful, but now she was finding that she was the distraction.

Normally, Liza would conduct surveillance and collect intel, and if an elimination was necessary, and only then, would she design the job based on what she’d found. In this situation, she hadn’t performed the legwork, she’d just been asked to take care of the end result. The piecemeal approach was the way the Trust seemed to work these days, which made Liza uncomfortable. She liked to know everything about a project and a target. Today’s mission was a simple one, at least for her, but seemingly simple jobs could turn into chaos if the operative wasn’t completely attentive and alert.

So Liza tried to put aside thoughts of Aleksei and questions about his death. Later, she told herself. Later. Yet she found it impossible not to remember.

Five years earlier

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

T he Trust called it a safe house, but really it was just a different apartment, bought the same way the place in Gávea across the street from Franco’s house had been purchased—quickly and with a lot of money. Similarly, the safe house had been stripped of the remnants of its previous owners, and then it had been decorated in what Liza liked to call Twentieth-Century Hotel. It was clean and decently appointed in lots of beige. Spending any amount of time there had always reminded Liza of the starkness in her life. But now Aleksei was with her. And the safe house seemed bursting with light and chock-full of something very new and very exciting.

It had been three days since she’d accosted the poor man and made him tell his story. After they’d left Rocinha, she’d placed the rock for him in a better spot, one which would catch the faces of those entering Franco’s house instead of their profiles. She had no interest in stopping the Russians from gaining information about Franco and Gustavo. The photos were easy, the kind of surveillance anyone could get, and Liza’s organization wouldn’t compete. They left other countries, other groups, to their own devices unless it appeared those countries or groups could compromise the United States and its citizens. Then they could get highly competitive. The results weren’t pretty, but they were necessary. That’s what Liza had always believed—would always have to believe if she were to keep her sanity.

One of the things Liza taught Aleksei was how to perform without emotion. It was never lost on her that she’d done the exact opposite when she’d met him. But she kept trying to teach him this nonetheless, because he also had to do his job without being particularly successful at it. He didn’t believe in what he was doing, not like Liza did, but for the safety of his friends and family he had to appear as if he cared very much. His handlers had instructed him in a rudimentary way on how to spot a tail and how to make a drop and various other tactics, but he was awful at them. Liza taught him the way she’d been taught.